Chapter 20
"Honestly, I have no idea who designed your suits," Gladley remarked, eyeing them with professional admiration. "But they are magnificent. Not just functionally, but the design—it's incredibly stylish. Right then, let's move on to more pressing matters. Your upcoming interview."
Pietro, having materialized next to the refrigerator, froze with a slice of cheese halfway to his mouth. "Interview?"
"Of course!" Gladley exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Your first public appearance! The entire country will want to know who you are. So, let's rehearse. First and foremost: Why did you decide to respond to Wilson Fisk's initiative and become the 'Guardians of New York'?"
Wanda shrugged. "I don't really care, to be honest."
"Because of the food," Pietro answered without a second thought, popping the cheese into his mouth.
"Because we want to change the public's perception of mutants," Jean intervened, cutting them off. "To show society that people like us are capable of more than just destruction—we can protect. We want to be the guarantors of safety for this city."
Gladley snapped his fingers enthusiastically. "Terrible, disgusting, and… brilliant!" He pointed at Jean. "Remember her answer. Word for word, that is your official position. Pietro, for heaven's sake, no eating. Wanda, a little less apathy. You are the future, not a teenager being forced to do the dishes."
He glanced back at his tablet. "Second question. 'It's hard not to notice you're performing without masks. Why?'"
Jean took the floor again, giving the others no chance to speak. "Heroes in masks are vigilantes hiding from accountability. We want to be answerable to society. We are positioning ourselves as public servants, like firefighters or police officers whose faces are known to everyone. Besides, a secret identity in the modern world isn't a shield; it's a target. If everyone already knows who you are, villains lose their primary leverage for blackmail."
"Lovely, lovely!" Gladley purred. "Golden words. Now, a personal question for you, Pietro. Do you have a girlfriend?"
Pietro, who had just cracked open a jar of olives, choked. "W-what? What's that got to do with anything?!"
"Everything!" Gladley raised a finger. "This question will be asked of all of you. And the correct answer is 'no.' Either 'My heart belongs to New York' or 'I'm too focused on the mission.' It will do wonders for your reputation."
"And why is that?" Wanda cut in, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because some pimply geek will imagine that in some hypothetical scenario, he actually has a chance with me?"
Gladley didn't miss a beat. "In essence, Miss Wanda, you've grasped the point perfectly. The illusion of availability is the key to public adoration. Oh, I almost forgot! Your superhero codenames? We need to brand you!"
"Scarlet Witch," Wanda said flatly.
"Quicksilver," Pietro added.
Everyone looked at Jean. "I don't have one," she replied calmly.
"Well, no matter!" Gladley said, undeterred, scribbling furiously on his tablet. "We'll find something for you. Something bright, powerful… 'Marvel Girl'? 'Phoenix'? Oh, 'Phoenix' sounds strong! We'll discuss it!"
Gladley scrolled through a few more screens. "Now, for the difficult part. The inevitable question, Miss Wanda." He looked up. "The whole world is discussing Genosha—the sovereign mutant state founded by Magneto. The press will surely ask: 'Why are you here and not there with your people? Do you not support his ideals? Do you consider him an enemy?'"
Wanda crossed her arms. "You simply don't understand the purpose of that island. It was created for those who have too many problems with this world. For those who are broken or don't want to fight. But it's not a solution; it's an escape. On a global scale, we need to learn to live with humans, not wall ourselves off from them."
Gladley nodded quickly, clearly pleased. "Excellent! The emphasis on 'living together' is exactly what we need. Now, the next and perhaps most personal question..."
He pretended to check his notes again, clearly quoting a potential journalist. "'Miss Maximoff, rumors are circulating that your abilities involve altering reality itself. Where is the line? What's to stop you from one day "un-thinking" this city because you, say, didn't like the weather? How can ordinary people trust you?'"
"My abilities do not work on living beings with a soul. They are inviolable."
"Perfect! That's what we'll go with—"
"And what happens if I do 'change my mind'?" she interrupted, a slight smile playing on her lips, though it carried a distinct chill. "I don't know. Maybe I'll turn Times Square into a perpetual horror attraction. But you don't want that, do you? So, you don't necessarily have to trust me. Just don't make me angry."
"Hmm, an ambiguous answer. Honestly, if you said you'd never do it out of high moral conviction, no one would believe you anyway. So, your response is satisfactory. We'll call it 'dark sincerity.' The public loves that."
He paused, sweeping a gaze over them. "Now, think about this: Why do you think Mr. Fisk chose the three of you?"
"We're strong," Wanda shrugged.
"We're cool," Pietro added.
"We're young," Jean said.
Gladley clapped his hands in delight. "Yes, yes, and yes! All three answers are correct! These three qualities must define this new initiative! The world needs those who are unconditionally strong to protect them. They need those who are cool—people love idols. And most importantly, the world needs harbingers of change! And who fits that role better than teenagers who have gained incredible superpowers? You are the future!"
He glanced at his watch. "Tsk-tsk. We are catastrophically short on time. There are a few more key questions to cover, and in exactly three hours, you are live to the entire world. You must be composed; the fate of our world literally depends on you."
Pietro waved him off. "Oh, come on. It's not like it's our first time."
Gladley's words didn't faze them in the least.
"Perhaps the three of you have already overcome the fear of death," he said, shaking his head reproachfully. "Perhaps you have fought unimaginable monsters I can only guess at. Но believe me, stage fright is an entirely different beast. It's one thing to stop a mutant; it's quite another not to sweat when ten cameras are pointed at you and a hundred million people are listening, ready to tear you apart for every wrong word. So, just in case, I'll give you a few quick tips..."
---
In a penthouse overlooking the neon-soaked night of Tokyo, it was quiet. Gorgon, one of the three High Leaders of The Hand, lay on a massive bed covered in black silk. He was entirely naked. His body, devoid of even the slightest flaw, looked as if it were carved from marble—muscular, young, and frighteningly beautiful. He lazily brought a porcelain cup of sake to his lips. The liquid trickled down his chin, leaving a wet trail on his chest. He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Hydra lost... Ha-ha, losers. Though, with such resources, they shouldn't have lost it all so easily."
His gaze drifted across the room and settled on a chessboard by the window. The pieces were arranged in a chaotic, illogical order that violated all the rules of the game.
"Did that bald bitch interfere again?"
At the mere thought of her, a strange shiver ran through his body—a mixture of hatred and primal arousal. "Oh, one day I'll have her. But for now… we'll set that aside." He sat up slowly. "So, what's on the menu today?"
Standing up, he surveyed the room, which was filled with statues. At first glance, they were masterpieces of art, but they were not made of marble or plaster. They were people frozen in time, trapped in petrification. Famous actresses who had vanished from covers, random passersby, men and women, thin and stout, tall and short. A whole collection of various types, frozen in poses of horror, surprise, lust, or silent prayer.
And in the center, on a special pedestal, stood his greatest achievement: Elektra.
He did not bear the name Gorgon for nothing; his gaze turned the living to stone. And, as an even more sophisticated form of torture, he could lift the petrification whenever he pleased. But he couldn't afford such luxury with Elektra. He knew that the moment her flesh became soft again, she would try to kill him before he could even enjoy the moment.
He stepped close to her, placing a palm on the cold, stony curve of her hip, while his other hand traced the line of her breast. His victims did not lose consciousness; they saw everything, heard everything, forever locked inside their immobile bodies. He derived unparalleled pleasure from that realization.
"This could have been us, darling," he whispered, pressing his lips to her stone ear. "But, unfortunately for you, you'll just have to watch."
He left a light kiss on her cold cheek.
Gorgon turned to another statue—a tall blonde he had chosen for today's entertainment—ready to break her shackles. But suddenly he froze, listening.
He smiled in anticipation. "Mobilization? Finally, something interesting."
---
Maki Matsumoto, known in Tokyo's high society as one of the most ruthless corporate lawyers, and in the shadows as Lady Bullseye, the second leader of The Hand, walked along the sidewalk in the Ginza district. The rain had just stopped, leaving behind glistening asphalt. She had just closed another multi-billion dollar hostile takeover deal.
Suddenly, a passing taxi hit a deep puddle at full speed. A fan of dirty water drenched her from head to toe, instantly ruining her silk Chanel suit.
The taxi stopped a few meters away. The driver stepped out, hurriedly opening the door for a female passenger, completely ignoring the soaked Maki.
"You splashed me," she said coldly.
The driver, having already taken payment from his client, turned around. "Don't stand in front of puddles then, sweetheart," he sneered. "Watch where you're going next time."
With that, he got back in the car and sped off.
Maki Matsumoto wasn't upset. She pulled out a handkerchief, slowly wiped her cheek, and smiled. "Fatal mistake."
Unlike Gorgon, who broke people with force and reveled in their fear, Lady Bullseye preferred a different approach. She didn't capture slaves; she created them. Step by step, she destroyed their lives until they themselves, voluntarily, came to her seeking escape from the hell she had orchestrated.
Finding the taxi driver took only a few minutes. Running him through the database using her law firm's resources was even easier. An ordinary family man, drowning in debt. Further surveillance revealed exactly what she expected: on Wednesdays, he regularly visited a "massage parlor" in the red-light district.
She hardly had to fabricate anything. She simply "supplemented" the truth. Anonymous letters and photos sent to his wife and friends. But she delivered the main blow by forging a photo "proving" that the "massage" had been provided by a minor.
Brick by brick, his life began to crumble. His wife kicked him out and took the kids; his friends turned their backs. He was fired from the taxi fleet due to the brewing scandal.
A week later, he sat in his tiny apartment, staring blankly at a rope looped over a ceiling beam.
"I wouldn't be in such a hurry to do that," a melodic voice rang out.
He didn't flinch. She was sitting in the open window frame, letting the moonlight into the room. It was too difficult for him to even wonder who she was or how she got there.
"I don't care," he muttered, turning back to the rope.
She hopped down noiselessly and approached him. She ran a fingernail along his stubbled chin, forcing him to lift his head and look her in the eyes.
"What's the matter? Wife found your photos? Friends found out you prefer younger girls?" She watched with pleasure as his face contorted at her words. "Did your children tell you to go die? You know what the funniest part is? I was behind all of it."
At this moment, her victims usually reacted in different ways. Some flew into a rage, lunging at her helplessly; others fell into catatonia. This man just stared.
She stroked his matted hair like a child's. "You can start a new, wonderful life. No pain, no debts, no memories. Just put this on and obey me."
She held out a simple black leather collar. At this stage, there were always two options. Some, completely broken, chose the rope and committed suicide right in front of her; she never stopped them. Others, clinging to an illusion of salvation, chose submission.
In his sunken eyes, a flicker of doubt appeared for a moment. He looked at the rope, then at the collar. And slowly, with trembling hands, he clicked it shut around his neck.
"Good boy." She slapped his cheek. Not painfully, but hard enough to demonstrate who was in charge now. "Now, get on all fours and lick my—"
She stopped. Usually, this stage was the sweetest: throwing the "dog" a treat, finalising the breakage of their will. But she was interrupted by a signal from her boss, The Beast.
"Are we going to war?"
---
Unlike the hedonism of Gorgon or the sophisticated cruelty of Lady Bullseye, the third leader of The Hand, Matsu'o Tsurayaba, lived an ascetic life. No alcohol, no carnal pleasures, no luxury. His world was limited to a tatami room, calligraphy on the walls, and a Shogi board. He almost never went outside, managing the global organization from this quiet sanctuary like a spider at the center of a web.
He slowly moved a Silver General, trapping his opponent's piece.
"Hydra has suffered defeat," he spoke into the void of the room, his voice as dry as the click of the piece against the board. "By all accounts, it is a direct result of the Ancient One's interference."
His hand reached for another piece. "Our best scouts, masters of the Shadow Ocean, were destroyed in New York. This is the handiwork of The Chaste. The old man has become active again."
Matsu'o placed the piece on the board. At that moment, the light from the room's single lamp flickered and died. The shadows in the corners ceased to be mere shadows. They thickened, flowing toward the center of the room, weaving into a formless, swirling silhouette that radiated a palpable cold.
The Beast, the demonic patron of The Hand, had arrived.
Matsu'o immediately bowed his head to the floor. "Master."
The Beast's voice did not come from the silhouette itself, but from everywhere at once.
"YOU MUST KILL THE MUTANTS. THEIR DEATH WILL DISRUPT THE BALANCE. THE WORLD WILL TOPPLE LIKE DOMINOES."
"Master," Matsu'o dared not look up, "what of the Ancient One? She watches; any major operation of ours will be immediately thwarted. We cannot oppose her openly."
"I WILL DISTRACT HER. I SHALL CREATE A THREAT IN THE DIMENSIONS TO OCCUPY HER SIGHT. AND YOU…" The darkness before Matsu'o thickened even further. "USE MY REALM OF SHADOWS. EVEN SHE WILL FIND IT DIFFICULT TO CALCULATE A FUTURE HIDDEN WITHIN MY SPHERE."
The silhouette began to fade, dissolving.
"DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME. MY HUNGER DEMANDS NEW DOMAINS."
The darkness vanished, and the lamp flickered back to life. In the spot where the Beast had just stood lay a small, perfectly black stone that seemed to swallow the light. A shard of the Shadow Realm itself.